


Red as Pomegranate Seeds

by lookninjas



Series: Variations on a Theme of Pomegranates [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death can be whatever you believe Him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red as Pomegranate Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate take on "Sweet as Pomegranate Seeds," from the Gift's perspective. There are references to homophobia, violence, and abuse in a quasi-historical setting.

"You are not bound."

The boy trembles at the sound of that voice, high and sweet and clear, but he does not open his eyes, nor does he stand. He remains as he is, kneeling naked and unbound and helpless in the center of the sacred grove. It's hopeless, of course; now that he has heard the voice, now that he knows who has come for him...

It's hopeless.

"It is customary to bind the sacrifice," the voice continues, coming closer. "But they did not bind you."

"They didn't need to," the boy says, his voice hoarse, roughened as if with pain. But of course there is pain; there is very great pain when he opens his eyes and sees the youth standing before him, tall and slender and pale as the moon, with his thick dark hair and his eyes, blue as the sky reflected in clear water. "As long as I believed..." He turns his face away; tears dampen his eyelashes and slide down his cheeks. For once, his lover does not reach out to touch his cheek, to wipe away the boy's tears. "Why did you not return to your people?" the boy demands, tears flowing faster. "Why did you come back?"

There is a pause. Out of the corner of his eye, the boy can see his lover kneeling down, his pale skin such a striking contrast to the golden tones of the boy's complexion. The first time they held hands, let their fingers twine together, neither of them could stop staring at the way they looked together, silver and gold. "You told me, once," the boy's lover says, and out of the corner of his eye, the boy can see he is holding something in his cupped hands, something red as pomegranate seeds. "You told me that Death could be gentle, if you believed Him to be."

The boy turns back to his lover, lifts his head, mouth falling open in disbelief.

His lover merely looks back at him. His blue eyes are red-rimmed, his hair disheveled, and there are tear tracks on his cheeks, yet somehow he seems strangely composed. In the moonlight, with his fair skin and tall, slender figure, and his blue eyes, he looks very nearly like a God.

"Let me show you how gentle Death can be," he says.

 

*

 

Death is warm, warmer than the boy could have ever imagined. He is so pale -- He shines like silk, and His skin is soft as silk, and the boy had thought He might be cool, like silk. But He is warm, and firm, and when He rests His body atop the boy's, He is heavy in such a strange and comforting way. The boy feels... shielded. Guarded. Safe. He wraps his arms around Death's broad shoulders, clings to Him like a frightened child (or, perhaps, like an ardent lover), and is not rebuffed, but accepted. He is held. Kissed, as he has never been kissed before. Death's lips are warm, warm as any human's; His breath is sweet, like pomegranates, like wine. His tongue... Warm, wet, and firm, and the boy is tasted, explored by it. It makes him feel something, something he has no name for, lightning-sharp and buzzing through him. It makes him bold, makes him pull Death down, their bodies tight together as the boy lets his own tongue stray even into Death's hot, humid mouth, lets himself taste and taste and... And Death does not push him aside, but gathers him closer, and for the first time ever, the boy feels something else, something warm and hard and insistent as Death's hungry kiss, grazing the inside of his bared thigh.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, dazed, even as his own hips twitch sharply upwards for the first time, as if spurred by this tangible demonstration of Death's desire for him. _Oh_.

He feels Death smile against his lips, even as He pulls back, slowly, tugging at the boy's lower lip with His teeth for a moment before finally releasing him. "So sweet," He says. "I wonder, My love, do you taste the same everywhere?" He bends back down for a moment, lips pressing gentle and warm and damp against the tender skin just below the boy's ear, making the boy shudder and cling tighter, his legs twining around Death's hips even as his arms clutch Death's broad shoulders. He breathes out, warm in the boy's ear, and the boy's hips jerk again, seeking something he does not know and cannot name. Death tastes the boy's earlobe, draws it into His warm, wet mouth, bites down lightly, and the boy moans, the feeling sharp as pain but different somehow, sweeter. "Should I find out? Should I taste all of you? Every inch?"

" _Oh_ ," is all the boy can manage, as Death's lips trail warm and wet and intoxicating down the column of his neck and then back up again, bared teeth grazing over where the boy can still feel his hammering pulse, pounding as though his heart is trying to fight its way free of his body. "Oh. Oh."

Death draws away from him, then; clinging to His shoulders, the boy tries to follow, but his body is too heavy, pleasure-drunk, and he falls back to the soft earth with a whine. But it is not the earth beneath him; it is something different, silken as Death's skin, warmed by the heat of their bodies. The boy feels his breath hitch in his chest -- he lets his hands fall to the sides, reaching out, finding where the silk is cooler, where they have not been yet. He reaches up, traces the edges of the pillows his head is resting on.

"I told you," Death says, gently chiding, and the boy opens his eyes, sees Death for the first time in His own realm. There is a strange light that suffuses the room, tinging Death's fair skin with a faint blush, tinting the thick, soft hair rich auburn. His eyes remain the same, blue as the sky reflected in clear water, but there is something to them, a softness. It has been so long since any have looked on the boy with softness, with care and kindness, and his breath hitches again. "I told you I would take you to My bed, and I have." A frown appears on Death's face, His eyebrows drawing together. "You said that was what you wished. Was it not so?"

"I..." The boy takes a deep breath, wondering why even as he does so. He is dead, surely he does not need...

"I'm dead," he says, speaking the words out loud for the first time; his eyes flutter shut and he breathes again, trying to take it in, to know it. "I died. I'm dead."

"You are," Death says, but there's a hesitancy in His voice; the boy opens his eyes again, sees Death withdraw further, the light in the room seeming somehow to cool, leaving Him more pallid than before. "You asked Me to take you, and I did. I cannot undo what has been --"

"I don't --" The boy sits up, reaching out; when Death does not reach back, the boy simply keeps moving, pressing himself forward until he is seated on Death's strong, bare thighs, his face pressed into the silken skin of Death's broad chest. "I do not wish that," the boy murmurs, and feels Death's arms close around him, more hesitantly now, as if He somehow fears the boy will still pull away from Him. "I would never wish that. Only... I need... It is a change and I need... I need a moment."

"But you do not wish Me to release you?" Death asks, and the boy never, in his wildest imaginings, thought he could hear a God sounding so... shy.

It makes him press in tighter, arms twined around Death's trim waist, pressing together skin-to-skin. "No," he whispers. "No, I wish... Just like this, please."

He feels Death's chest rise and fall with His own steady breaths, and then Death's arms tighten their grip on him, enclosing, protecting. "Very well," Death says, and sits, and holds him.

The boy breathes in and out, trying to match Death's steady rhythm. It isn't hard; none of this is hard, and perhaps that's why... "I thought it would be harder," he admits, as one of Death's long-fingered hands begins to trace restless patterns on the skin of his lower back. The God's touch had inflamed, earlier; now it soothes. How strange a thing, that the same hands that had intoxicated now seem to clear his mind. "That You would not want me, that I would have to... to plead with You, to offer You..."

"You offered yourself," Death says, mildly. "Did you not think that would be enough?"

The boy feels his throat tighten, fresh tears gathering hot behind his closed eyelids. "I have never been enough. Not since my mother..." Death's hand takes up a more rhythmic stroking, moving in circles; He rests His cheek against the boy's hair. "And never for anyone but her. Why should I be enough for a God?"

"Because," Death says, and for a moment the boy thinks that's all He's going to say. But then the God continues, His voice sweet, lulling in the boy's ear. "Because you believed I could be gentle, when surely every voice you heard told you that I would be dreadful. Because you came unbound and willing to that place that none of your people would dare come to, to the One that your people fear more than any. Because you were willing to give yourself, not only for the moment of your death, but for the eternity afterwards, and you asked only that I loved you, as you were willing to love Me. How could any, God or mortal, ask for more?"

It sounds so simple, the way He puts it, but the boy cannot quite accept it; it is too new, too... "But I... I have done no great deeds, fought no enemies. I can barely work in the fields, and I..."

Death simply shrugs, His shoulders rising and falling. "I am Death, sweet one," He says. "I have no fields for you to work in. I have no enemies to fight. And Death, as you should know, cares not for great deeds. But one who is willing to love Me, to give Me all himself, one who does not shrink from the prospect of being loved by Me..." He slides His hands up the boy's back, smoothing over his shoulders before cupping the boy's face in His hands, raising it tenderly from where it is hidden against His chest, raising it in order to press a gentle kiss to the boy's parted lips. "That, My love, I have never had. Nor did I ever think to have it, until you offered it to Me."

The boy opens his eyes again, sees how beautiful Death is, His face once again warmed by the light, his eyes so kind. "I cannot imagine," he says, his voice shaking slightly, "how any could look upon You and not love You."

"Believe Me," Death says, smiling a little, bitterly, "it happens." Then His smile softens; His hands slide back down to the boy's shoulders, squeezing there. "But then, I cannot imagine how any could look upon you and not love you, and yet your experience has been much the opposite. So either we are equally blind or equally perceptive. And Death is not blind."

"No," the boy agrees, and cannot help but smile back. He reaches up, bold, and traces his fingers over the smooth curve of Death's eyebrows, down the line of His cheekbone. "No, You are not."

Death smiles at him a little longer, then seems to grow a little pensive. "But do you understand," He says, stroking down over the boy's chest, His hands settling lightly at the curve of the boy's waist. "Do you understand how I could love you, then? Or do you doubt Me still?"

The boy hesitates.

Death does not withdraw from him again, but His face changes, grows sadder. "How do I convince you?" He asks.

The boy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly; he leans in, kisses Death, gently, just a press of lips to lips. "Be patient," he says -- asks it, really, his voice lilting up at the end of the last word. "Will You... Be patient with me, and know that I do not doubt You, only myself, and that I... I do not fear You; I fear losing You. And... When I doubt, and when I fear, just... be with me, like this, and be patient, and it will pass."

"I can be patient," Death murmurs. "Death is very patient." He strokes over the boy's hip with one silken-skinned, long-fingered hand, trailing it down the boy's thigh and back up again, raising the hairs away from the skin. "Should I... Should I be patient with you now?" He asks, His hand stilling. "You have been through... You have been through much tonight, and I would not..." He shakes His head, lets His hand glide back up to the boy's waist; He leans in and softly kisses the corner of the boy's mouth. "We have eternity, you and I," He says, and the boy shivers a little at the prospect, not from fear, but... But something else entirely. "And after all, it is no hardship for Me to simply hold you, and kiss you --" and here He leans in again, kisses the boy a little more thoroughly, enough to leave him clinging to Death's shoulders, breathless. "In fact, I could do it for a very long time."

The boy hesitates again, but for different reasons this time. He wants... He still wants these things he has no name for, wants Death to taste him wherever He wishes, wants to learn everything Death can teach him. Death is beautiful and He feels so good -- not only His hands and His mouth (which are amazing), but the hard, lean strength of His body, the weight of Him, the muscles moving under His silken skin. Everything about Him promises pleasure, the sort the boy could drown in. And it might even help him, for a little while. He might believe, for a little while.

Or, perhaps, it might make everything seem that much less real, in the end. It might, just might, be more than he is ready for, newly-dead, fragile and uncertain.

Death makes a soft noise in His throat and lays them back down in the silken sheets, which have cooled without their bodies' warmth. When the boy shivers, Death rolls them over, wraps them up -- the boy finds himself tangled in Death's warm arms, his cheek pressed to Death's smooth chest, over that immortal, unceasing heartbeat, the sheet a soft cocoon over them both. "Rest," Death tells him, His long fingers tugging lightly at the boy's curls; it feels good, nearly good enough for the boy to want more, but not quite. "Rest. I will hold you. It is well."

"I --" The boy starts, then stops, unsure of what he would say. There would be gratitude, if he could think of a way to express it. Promises, perhaps, that this would pass and that he would prove himself to be the lover Death truly wished for. Apologies, even, for his inability to simply do what they both wanted, to give his body over, freely, the way he gave his life. There is so much to be said that it chokes him; he simply cannot find the words.

"I love you too," Death murmurs, and holds him close, warm and safe and tangled in the sheets. "Rest."

And, as if the word was a command, the boy sinks down into sleep without another thought.

 

*

 

He dreams of love, of a beautiful man with blue eyes and thick brown hair, skin silvery-fair as the moon; he dreams of a man with long fingers and broad shoulders and strong thighs who lays him down in the soft good earth at the heart of the sacred grove

(death awaits you there and death knows no mercy, nor kindness)

and presses him into the ground with firm hands and hot kisses and the weight of his body, lean and well-muscled and heavy

(death is too good for the likes of you)

until he sinks into the earth like one sinking into a grave, and the body of his lover is like the weight of the earth covering him, and he is buried but he has no fear, for his lover is there, kissing him, kissing him

(like a lover to kiss you awake, and when you open your eyes you will be in such a blessed world, my son)

and it occurs to him, although he knows not when, that the phantom lips have been replaced by real ones, soft and warm and seeking; they coax his own lips to part, and he tastes pomegranates

(you taste like pomegranates)

and oh.

It was no dream.

He died.

He is dead.

He is dead, and Death (beautiful Death, with His fair skin and His blue eyes and His silken touch and His strong, heavy body) is kissing him awake.

What can the boy do but kiss Him back?

He reaches up, blindly, and wraps his arms around Death's broad shoulders, and pulls that warm and heavy weight more fully on top of him; his legs part for Death to lie between them. He can feel himself, his sex, swelling heavy and hard; he can feel Death hardening against his thigh. He wants... He wants everything. He doesn't even know what that would be, everything, but he wants it anyway. Death's hand on him, his hand on Death... or mouths maybe, the God wished to taste him everywhere, and that would include... And Death tastes so sweet, like pomegranates, perhaps even there, and...

Death draws away from the boy's lips, panting into his ear; the boy had not thought a God could sound so undone. "My love," He groans, one hand sliding down the boy's leg to his knee, bending and lifting it until the boy's leg wraps around His waist, aligning their bodies; the boy feels soft, silken skin against the hardness of his sex, and he whimpers, hips straining up, seeking touch and friction and heat. "My love, if you do not wish -- If you need time, then --"

The boy wraps his other leg around Death's waist, pulling Him down even as the boy arches up; Death feels so good against him, hard muscle and soft skin and this is only the merest fraction of what they could have together, what they will have, someday, but it's enough for now, it's enough...

"Very well," Death gasps, one hand tightening on the boy's bare buttock, pulling him up and in and closer, closer; His other hand slips between their bodies, slender fingers wrapping around the boy's sex as well as His own, holding them tight together (so soft so hard so hot). Then Death's lips are pressed to the boy's neck again, below his ear, where he's so sensitive; Death's hips are moving, his sex shifting hot and hard and soft against the boy's, the wet head of it slicking his skin where they press together, tight and close and --

" _Oh_ ," the boy gasps, hips arching up and head tipping back into the pillows, heat flooding through him. His body tenses, shudders, _releases_. "Oh, oh, oh..."

Death's grip on the boy's buttock tightens, nails digging in, little pinpricks of pain; His now-slick hand still holds His sex tight against the boy's, His hips shifting faster, rubbing them together, and it's too much but still so good and the boy can only whimper as Death sucks at his neck, the skin there hot and tingling, his skin everywhere hot, burning up, and then there is even more heat, wet heat where the boy's sex is pressed tightly to Death's. Death's hips slow to a stop; His tight grip on the boy loosens; His lips slide wetly away from the now-bruised skin of the boy's neck. His body sinks heavily onto the boy's, pressing him into the soft bed, a heavy weight.

(he is buried)

(he has no fear)

He reaches up, tangles his fingers into Death's thick, soft hair, and guides His head gently until their lips are pressed together, until he can kiss his Lover, kiss Him and kiss Him and kiss Him.

Eventually, Death seems to recover; He draws back a little, His forehead resting against the boy's. "I only meant to kiss you," He breathes; it is not, the boy thinks, a complaint. "I was being patient."

"You were," the boy says; his fingers stroke through Death's hair, and Death seems to press His head back into the touch, like a cat. "I was not."

"Well," Death says, and shifts down a little, resting His head on the boy's chest. "You were mortal but recently. I suppose that explains it."

The boy wonders if he ought to be offended, but he cannot manage it. So he continues to stroke at Death's thick hair; there is something peculiar in this moment, he thinks, something in the way he feels as though he is holding Death, and not the other way around.

(you were willing to love Me)

"I brought you pomegranates," Death says.

The boy isn't sure whether to laugh or to cry at that, and is really too wrung out for either, so he simply smiles and combs his fingers through Death's silken hair, and says, "I love You, too."

 

*

 

"Truly, you have never eaten a pomegranate?"

The boy sits on Death's bed, atop the silken sheets (now slightly soiled); Death sits across from him, a knife in his hands; the pomegranates are between them, on a tray. Death slices each pomegranate open, one by one. He hardly seems to be doing anything at all, though -- He touches the knife to the fruit, and it falls into two halves as though the God's will, not the knife, were doing the work. Perhaps it is so; this is Death's realm, after all. Perhaps everything here is simply what He wills it to be.

What that means for the boy himself, he couldn't say.

"I have never eaten at all," Death tells him; He touches the knife to the last fruit, and it falls into two halves on the platter. Death lays the knife down.

The boy tips his head to the side, contemplates his Lover for a moment. In the warm light of His own bedchamber, Death looks very nearly human, sensual and yet somehow innocent, with full pink lips and wide blue eyes. He came to the boy unclothed, and naked He remains, His long, beautiful body uncovered, bare. Nothing about Him is hidden; all is on display.

One doesn't merely hide behind one's clothing, of course. There are other ways to remain hidden.

And yet.

"Could You?" the boy asks, taking one of the pomegranate halves in his hand and carefully setting the tray aside, not willing to have anything (and particularly not a knife) between himself and his Lover. "If You wanted to eat something. Could You?"

Death shrugs. "I suppose," He says.

The boy dips his fingers between the thin white membranes of the pomegranate, scoops out some of the seeds. The juice is sticky on his fingers; if this realm does not conform to Death's wishes, and if things do not appear and disappear at His command, then the boy can only hope that Death has a bath nearby, and clean sheets. "Would You?" he asks.

"For you?" Death asks; it is, the boy thinks, a sincere question, and he nods in answer. "Of course."

The boy takes a deep breath, shifts a little closer. He lifts his hand, the pomegranate seeds glistening red against his skin, balanced on three fingers. He can feel the juice running down the back of his palm as he leans in, offers the seeds.

Death hesitates for a moment, then opens His mouth.

There is a jolt that goes through the boy when Death's warm lips close around his fingers. Death's tongue searches his skin, as if seeking every last bit of juice. When the boy draws his fingers out again, Death sucks at them, His cheeks hollowing, and the boy's breath hitches; he can feel his sex starting to stir again.

But Death is sitting there, looking at him, with His mouthful of pomegranate seeds, and the boy realizes too late that Death has never eaten before, and may not know what to do next.

"Push the seeds between Your teeth," he says, and lays his sticky, juice-stained hand on Death's cheek, feeling His tongue work in His mouth. "Good. Now chew them. Like this." He opens his mouth wide, then closes his teeth, then opens them again; Death's eyebrows draw together, and the boy nearly laughs at the disgust in His expression. "Only smaller, with Your mouth closed. Like --" He takes Death's hand and lays it on his own face, the slim fingers tracing out the line of his jaw, and he chews, and feels under his own hand the God mimicking his actions. "Good," he says. "Good. Now." He slides his hand down to Death's throat, almost startled by the way his red-stained fingers look against that smooth, pale column. Death mimicks the movement, His soft hand gentle on the boy's heated skin, and the boy swallows involuntarily. Beneath his hand, he feels Death once again mimick the action, swallowing the seeds.

"Good," the boy says, one last time, his voice unaccountably raspy and hoarse. "Was it... Was it good?"

"I prefer the way you taste," Death says, matter-of-factly; He lifts the pomegranate half from the sheets next to the boy's thigh and cups it in His pale hand, contemplating it for a moment. "But I enjoyed the ritual." He dips His long, pale fingers into the fruit, scoops out some seeds, offers them to the boy.

The boy swallows again, his lips parting involuntarily, and then Death's sticky fingers are pushing inside his mouth, sweet with pomegranate juice. The boy closes his eyes to taste it, the sweetness clinging to Death's skin; he licks each seed away from Death's fingers and sucks at the juice that remains behind, and when Death finally slips free of him with a groan, the boy opens his eyes once more and sees Death's pale face flushed with desire. Nor, the boy notes, is His face the only part of Him that is... flushed.

But he waits for Death's fingers to settle on his jaw before he chews, and he waits for that pale hand to rest against his throat before he swallows.

Death lets His hand slide down a little further, to the center of the boy's chest; He leans in, eyes dark and focused on the boy's lips. "Are we being patient?" He asks, softly.

The boy trembles beneath His touch, his body sinking back into the bed without Death having to guide him, his legs spreading of their own volition. "No," he whispers, dry-mouthed. He can still feel the God's fingers heavy on his tongue, can still taste the sweetness of pomegranates, and he is beginning to understand at least one of the things he wishes to do with his Lover.

"Good." Death settles heavy on him, and His tongue sweeps over the boy's throat, as if licking up the pomegranate juice left by His fingers. "I have not tasted all of you yet. I will do so now."

"Please," the boy says, his breath catching as Death moves over him, His teeth scraping lightly down the boy's bared neck before closing (again, lightly) on the tensed muscle of the boy's shoulder. Then soft kisses at the boy's collarbones, a wet press of tongue in the notch between, and then lower yet, lower...

"Please, please, please," the boy breathes, clutching at the sheets as Death's lips close around one of his nipples. It is more sensitive than his fingers (less sensitive than the place he most wants Death to taste, but still), and his hips buck as Death laves His tongue over the skin, his sex brushing the soft skin of Death's belly. Death raises an eyebrow at him,and His hands fall on the boy's hips, then, pushing them down into the softness of the bed. There is something about Death's eyes, watching the boy, never looking away even as He presses kisses down the boy's torso, tongue skirting the dip of his navel and making him tremble before moving on, lower yet, lower... The boy cannot look away.

Even when Death's soft lips are finally closing around the tip of the boy's sex, His tongue working as though searching for sweetness, and the boy presses desperately up against Death's strong hold, seeking more, always more... Even as the boy shudders and whimpers and begs, "Please, please, please," his whole body straining and reaching and aching for release, he cannot look away from those blue eyes, so very nearly innocent and yet.

Not innocent at all, really.

 

*

 

There is a bath; whether it was always there, or whether Death simply willed it into being matters not at the moment. The boy had thought to set most of the pomegranates aside (and, fortunately, the knife), but that last half a pomegranate had remained on the bed, forgotten, as Death tasted the boy's sex and swallowed down his release. (Although, as Death had been holding the boy still at the time, it's possible that the pomegranate was not upset, did not spill the remainder of its seeds, until the boy coaxed Death to kneel above him, to allow him to taste his own Love, and drink Him down.)

(Death does not taste of pomegranates everywhere, but it is a taste the boy could easily get used to.)

Regardless, the boy, having been flat on his back until after the rogue pomegranate was discovered, is now sticky, stained red by its juices, and is therefore very grateful for the bath.

"But I suppose I look a little more like a sacrifice, at least," he murmurs, sliding gratefully into the steaming tub. It is perfectly comfortable, the hot water soothing to muscles held tense and trembling for too long, and he lets his eyes drift closed for a moment or two, floating in the stillness.

It is too still.

It is very, very much too still.

The boy opens his eyes, his breath caught in his throat, and sees Death looking back at him, His face stunned, almost boyish and yet somehow very old, sorrowful.

"My Love?" he asks, hesitantly. "I... Is something wrong?"

Death does not merely close His eyes; His whole face closes, like the shutting of a door or the dousing of a light. He breathes deeply; the boy can see the rise and fall of His chest. Then He opens His eyes again, and kneels next to the tub. "Later," He promises. "If you would ask, ask Me later. I need... I need you to be patient with Me, now."

"All right," the boy says, but almost immediately, adds, "If I have said anything, or done anything, I --"

Death silences him with a kiss, brief and almost a little too firm; His hands grip the edge of the bath tightly, and the boy finds he has no voice to protest the rougher treatment. "Patience," Death says again. "I... For now, I would wash you. If I may."

"Of course," the boy says, softly, and raises one arm from the water. He wonders if Death will still be strange and rough, but when Death takes a cloth in hand and begins to wipe the juice from the boy's skin, He is gentle. Reverent, almost. He cleans the boy with careful hands, pausing only to let His fingers skim over the smooth, unblemished skin left behind. His eyes, darker somehow than they were before, follow the work of His hands, staring at the boy as if searching him for something. The boy wonders what it is that He hopes (or, perhaps, fears) to find.

Then Death's slim fingers rest, briefly, on the boy's neck, on a place where Death's mouth had lingered long, when the two first came together. The boy feels Death's fingers trembling, and wonders, but says nothing. "I made this mark," Death says.

It is impossible for the boy to guess Death's feelings on the matter; therefore he does not try. "You did," he agrees.

"I..." Death's thumb grazes over the place; the skin there is sensitive, like a bruise, and the boy shivers to be touched there. "I hurt you," Death says, quietly, and turns His face away.

"No!" Water sloshes over the edges of the tub as the boy reaches out to cup Death's face in his hands, to turn those blue eyes back to him once more. Death is surprisingly easy to move; as soon as the boy's hands are on Him, Death is turning back to look at the boy, something very strange in His expression. He is... Hurt, the boy thinks. Death has been hurt. And He is afraid, now.

How does one comfort a God?

"No," the boy says again, thumbs stroking over Death's high cheekbones, leaving them damp as though with tears. "You did not... It felt good, to have Your mouth on me, there. I... I liked it. You did not hurt me. You have never hurt me."

Death lays one dry hand over one of the boy's damp wrists; he squeezes, but only gentle. "You would tell Me," He whispers. "If I hurt you, or did something you did not want... You would tell Me. Wouldn't you?"

"Of course," the boy says, and wonders. He does not even know that he can be hurt, and if it could happen, he doubts very much that Death would be the cause. But Death's hands are still trembling; he still seems... Afraid.

The boy wonders what Death could have to fear, but he knows that now is not the time to ask.

He takes the cloth from the side of the tub, dampens it a little in the water. The water has remained clear, and is as hot as it ever was; the boy is reminded of Death slicing pomegranates in half with the knife, how they fell apart as soon as the knife touched them. Of course, this is Death's realm; there is no reason for Him to need a knife at all, nor the pomegranates, for that matter. But He is trying, the boy realizes; He is trying to give the boy a home that is something like the home he was driven from. He is doing the best He can. But He is not human; He has never been alive; He does not understand the smaller things.

But He is trying. That, the boy thinks, is what matters most.

He brushes the damp cloth across Death's pale cheek, where a few smudges of juice are left behind. He strokes it down Death's neck, where he had laid His hand and felt Death swallow for the first time. He rinses the cloth in the water, wrings it out again, and dabs at a sticky spot on Death's forearm. Then he glances down, and smiles. "You have pomegranate juice on Your knees, my Love."

"I..." Death looks down, then looks back up at the boy, seeming so uncertain; the boy lays the cloth down on the edge of the tub, and holds out his damp hands.

"Come," the boy says. "There is room for both of us. I will clean You, as You have cleaned me, and then, if the water is still warm and if You wish, You could... You could hold me for a while. If You wished it."

"I do wish it," Death says, softly, wonderingly. "I... I wish it very much."

The boy slides his legs underneath him, kneeling to make room, and when Death places both hands in his, he guides his Love, gently, into the water with him.

(The water remains warm for a long time; the boy is not surprised by this.)

 

*

 

They have left the tub, and dried each other with long, soft cloths, and are once more wrapped up together in the bed, tangled in (clean) sheets and in each other's arms, the boy's head once again resting on Death's broad chest, when Death finally speaks. "I would not distress you," He says, quietly. "I do not wish... In any case, it does not matter now. The book has already been written. It cannot be changed. There is nothing... There is nothing to fear, now."

"But You are afraid," the boy says; Death says nothing, but His fingers still in the boy's hair. "Or at least, You were. And You were distressed. I would... I would help You, if I could."

"You do help," Death says, His voice very sweet; He begins combing His fingers through the boy's dark curls once more. "Your being here. It helps Me. More than you know."

"Then I am glad," the boy whispers, and turns his face to press his lips to Death's skin, a sweet kiss over Death's immortal, ceaseless heart.

He has nearly resigned himself to never knowing what it was that upset his Love so much when Death speaks again.

"Your kind," He says, His voice perhaps a little strained. "Mortal kind. They... They wonder, do they not? When a question is left unanswered, they do not let it lie; they think about it, wonder about it. Sometimes it leads them to wrong answers, does it not? The wondering?"

The boy takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, does his best to stay relaxed and comfortable in Death's embrace. "It can, yes," he says.

"I would not have you think wrongly about the situation," Death says, quietly. "In truth, I would not have you think of it at all. But this, I suppose, is something neither of us can command."

"I suppose not," the boy says, and relaxes, and lets himself be held, his hair petted and played with. He knows this is what Death needs; he does not entirely know why.

(one who does not shrink from the prospect of being loved by Me)

But the why, he supposes, does not matter so much.

"Did you never wonder, My love, why Death would demand a sacrifice?" Death asks, after a little while. "Why One who takes so many lives would care so deeply about one that He would destroy your people's harvest if that one life was not given to Him?"

The boy never wondered. Of course, he never wondered. It is embarrassing, deeply so, but it is also true.

"The answer, of course, is that Death asks for _no_ lives." The boy closes his eyes; he feels suddenly as though he is on the edge of a great precipice, about to look down into something he cannot imagine. Death's arms tighten around him, and it helps a little, but not enough. "All I do, all I have ever done, is come when I am called, take what I am meant to take, and deliver it to its destination. It is not My place to determine when and where a life should be cut off; that is for Others. I come only when the decision has been made."

"But You took me," the boy protests. He does not know why he argues the point; he simply knows he needs to.

"I did." Death's fingers, once again, fall still; His hand cradles the back of the boy's head, holding him to His chest. "Your death had not yet come to you when I arrived. You asked Me to take you before any others could. I did so."

(perhaps a Devil will come for you, as he did your mother)

The boy presses his cheek to Death's smooth skin, squeezes his eyes tighter shut. He does not want to think of any others who might have been coming for him, or what they might have done had they been the first to arrive. But he can't quite stop himself from asking, "Why? Why did you take me? Why did you not --"

Death's chest rises and falls. For a few moment, He is silent. Then a sigh escapes Him. "It is strange, is it not?" He asks. "Had I come later, had I come... Had I come after, I should not have cared what state you were in. It is not My nature to be squeamish. But having seen you, alive and unharmed, having spoken to you..."

His fingers slip free of the boy's curls, stroking down the boy's back, his shoulders and arms, stroking him the way He had after the boy's skin had been washed clean of the pomegranate juice, red as blood, that had stained it. "i could not let them harm you," He whispers. "What they would have done to you, had i waited, what you would have gone through..." Death's whole body shudders; the boy kisses His chest again. "i couldn't bear to see it. i took you with me because i could not bear to see you in pain."

He sounds so... The boy slides carefully off Death's broad chest, his hands still on Death's shoulders, tugging until Death moves with him, unusually passive. But that's all right; it is time for the boy to hold his Love, and he does so, settling on his back in the cool silk sheets with Death laying on top of him, His head tucked to the boy's chest, pressed to the steady murmur of his heartbeat. "I am here," the boy tells his Love, holding Him as tight as he can. "You came for me, and I am here. Because of you."

"Not because of me," Death replies, softly; He does not lift His head from the boy's chest, or shift at all within the protective circle of the boy's arms. "i go only when i am called. i was called early to your side. i do not know why."

The boy holds his Lover close. Somehow, in this moment, Death seems so much smaller than he did before; his legs are still longer than the boy's, but then, too, they are slimmer; his shoulders are broad and his arms strong, but his waist is narrow and his hands are slender and delicate. His muscles are hard, but his skin is so soft. And the boy knows, he thinks, why Death was called to him at that particular time.

But he says only, "I am glad you came."

Death clings to him, and whispers, "i am too."

 

*

 

The boy's lover presses him into the soft earth at the heart of the sacred grove and kisses him, kissing him until he is drunk with it, until his body is heavy, his head spinning, his lungs barely able to take in air. His arms slide away from his lover's broad shoulders, dropping exhausted to the earth.

(a palmful of red berries, brighter than pomegranate seeds)

And still his lover keeps kissing him, tongue sweeping into the boy's pliant mouth, breathing in deeply as though he is trying to drink the boy's halting breaths.

(do you remember the story your mother told you? about death, coming with a kiss?)

And even when the boy hears voices and heavy footsteps in the distance

(a Devil will come for you)

and, awakened by half-remembered fears, tries to push his lover away

(I will not leave your side, nor will I let you leave mine)

his lover kisses him, just pressing their lips together, his body growing heavier atop the boy's, heavier and heavier and heavier, as each press of lips becomes weaker and the voices come closer, the footsteps come closer, but the boy is already leaving them, his lover is coming with him, they are leaving, they are...

They are dying.

They are dead.

The boy opens his eyes and, in the twilight glow of Death's domain, he sees a head of thick brown hair resting on his chest, ear still pressed to the skin as if listening to his heartbeat.

(there was a stranger, once: a youth, nearly a man, with thick brown hair and beautiful blue eyes and full pink lips and a high sweet voice, and the boy was captivated in a moment)

The boy strokes Death's soft skin with trembling hands, careful not to wake Him. But does Death sleep? The boy supposes He could, if He chose; He chose to eat, after all, they ate pomegranate seeds, and...

(in the sacred grove, away from any who could see, the boy brought his love pomegranates and fed him the seeds, red juice and that sweet mouth)

"You have dark dreams, My love," Death murmurs, never raising His head from the boy's chest. "I wish I had not told you of the sacrifice. I knew you would be distressed by it."

"I..." Is that why he dreams thus? Because he knows now what could have been, that the man who fathered him would truly have come, almost certainly did come, only to find the boy already gone. His Lover had already come for him.

But in the dream, his lover was mortal. His lover was fragile. His lover could be hurt.

Therein, the boy thinks, lies the darkness. He feared the pain, yes. He did not fear death, but he did fear pain. But to see his lover hurt, perhaps even killed...

(promise me you won't hurt him and i'll do anything)

"You, too, were distressed," the boy says, and continues to stroke the smooth skin of Death's strong back. He carries so much. "I could not help You if I did not know why. And I want very much to help You, my Love."

Death raises His head at that, looks at the boy with curious blue eyes. "You would help Me," He says, resettling Himself on the boy's chest (it occurs to the boy that, although he had not noted it before, his own chest is perhaps a little broader than Death's, his shoulders wider, although Death remains the taller and almost certainly the stronger). Death's thumb strokes over the boy's lower lip; the boy relaxes his jaw a little, and lets the tip of Death's thumb slip between his upper and lower lips, where his mouth is warm and wet. "How, then, would you help Death?"

Death's thumb slides free of the boy's lips, trailing damp across his cheek.

"By loving You," the boy says, his hands settling on Death's waist even as Death sits upright, settling Himself astride the boy's hips and looking down at him with strange, beautiful blue eyes. "By letting You love me. By... By believing that You love me. That I can be... That I can be enough."

"You are more than enough," Death murmurs, His voice choked. "You are... You are so much more than enough."

There is no way for the boy to reply to that; he strokes his hands down Death's strong, bare thighs, then back up to His waist, then a little higher. It does not take much pressure, only a little nudging, for the boy to coax Death back down atop his body, to press him into the sheets and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until he is nearly drunk with it, his body heavy, his head spinning.

Death draws back a little, only a little, His lips grazing the boy's ear, breath hot against the boy's skin. "Will you?" He asks. "Will you let Me love you? Please?"

"Please," the boy echoes, his body arching up, as if offering itself to the God the way the boy once offered his own life. "Please, please, please..."

 

*

 

"Please," the boy's lover says, blue eyes even more vivid now that they are red-rimmed, crystalline with unshed tears. His thick brown hair is disheveled, his pale skin flushed with exertion and streaked with dirt -- how long must he have spent searching the forest, when he ought to have been fleeing, how long must he have spent fighting his way through the underbrush, seeking that one little bush, that one little spot of bright red. "Please let me give you this."

The boy's breath catches in his chest; he reaches out with unbound hands to stroke the smooth skin of his lover's cheeks. "You would give your life for me?" he asks, disbelieving.

"You meant to give yours for me," his lover says. "I... I would give anything for you. Anything."

The boy's hands tremble; still, he hesitates. "You do not believe in the afterworld," he murmurs. "What if we were not together, after? What if..."

The boy's lover turns his cheek into the boy's hand, leaning into the touch (all he can do, with his hands still full of berries, and he more bound than the boy himself). "You believe in the afterworld," he says. "I... I believe in you. You will keep us together. I know you will."

There is nothing the boy can say to that; his eyes fill with tears he cannot blink away, no matter how he tries.

"I will not leave your side," the boy's lover tells him, and he is crying, too; they are both crying now, silent tears streaming down their faces. "Nor will I let you leave mine. Please, please. Let me give you this. Let me come with you."

The boy swallows hard, his throat dry.

Then he holds his hand out, and lets his lover tip some of the berries into his cupped palm.

"When last we came to this place," his lover says, staring at the berries in his pale, slender hand, "you had brought pomegranates. I had never eaten a pomegranate before, and did not know where to begin. So you cut one in half, and you scooped the seeds out, and you fed them to me. Like this."

He raises his hand to the boy's lips; the boy lets his lover feed him the berries, one by one, and kisses his lover's fingers when they are empty. His lover smiles sadly at him, eyes still filled with tears, then traces his fingers across the boy's jaw to feel him chewing, down to his throat when he swallows.

Then the boy lifts his own hand and, one by one, feeds his lover the poisoned berries. He feels his lover's jaw work as he chews, feels his throat bob as he swallows. He lets his hand rest on his lover's throat a while longer, closes his eyes, and trembles.

It is over.

They will be dead long before it is time for the sacrifice.

"Do you remember," the boy's lover says, quietly, "the story your mother told you? About death, coming with a kiss?"

The boy opens his eyes (for the last time, he knows), and looks at his lover, at his wide blue eyes and his rosy lips (still trembling as if with tears), at his silvery-fair skin and his thick brown hair. It is not hard to imagine how his lover could be mistaken for a God; he is very beautiful. More beautiful than any Death the boy can imagine.

"I love you," he says, and reaches out for his lover (for the last time), and pulls him down. They lay together on the soft earth, and his lover is warm and heavy atop him, and the boy feels safe. "Kiss me," he murmurs.

"I love you too," his lover says, softly, before kissing him.

For the last time.

 

*

 

After it is over, after Death has opened the boy, and entered him, and joined with him, their bodies rocking together as one until they both found release, the boy's spilling onto Death's smooth skin, Death's hot and wet deep inside the boy, marking him where it could never be seen, Death sleeps. It is not a feigned sleep, as before, when He lay with His head on the boy's chest and listened to the beating of his heart. This is true sleep, deep as any the boy has seen or known, and the boy can only watch in wonder, his hand on Death's strongly muscled back, feeling the rise and fall of His breathing.

The boy did not know that Death would breathe, or sleep, or eat.

He did not know that Death would be warm and not cool.

He did not know much of Death at all, really.

He knew only what his mother had told him. That Death had many forms, and that He could be whatever the boy wished Him to be. That if the boy believed Death could be gentle, that He would be. That if he believed Death would show kindness to him, then Death would be kind. That the boy's death would be whatever he believed it could be.

The boy strokes Death's back, and feels Him breathing. "I believe You love me," he says. Death is a warm, heavy weight on top of him; He does not stir. The boy continues. "I believe You need me. As I love You. As I need You."

Death's hand, still holding fast to the boy's shoulder, tightens just a little.

"I believe," the boy repeats, and closes his eyes, and with Death still settled warm and heavy on his chest, he sinks into the softness of the bed, and he sleeps.

But he does not dream.

He never dreams again.


End file.
